


ozymandias

by MathildaHilda



Series: What If; Red Dead Redemption Edition [9]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathildaHilda/pseuds/MathildaHilda
Summary: Jack Marston meets an old traveler on the road.
Series: What If; Red Dead Redemption Edition [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1368700
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	ozymandias

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelly;
> 
> I met a traveller from an antique land,  
> Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone  
> Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,  
> Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,  
> And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,  
> Tell that its sculptor well those passions read  
> Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,  
> The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;  
> And on the pedestal, these words appear:  
> My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;  
> Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!  
> Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
> Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare  
> The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Had it not been for the shout, Jack Marston would’ve run the man down and, most likely as not, toppled right over him.

He does not, fortunately, but he’s pretty damn close.

He holds the reins in his hands, pulling Brutus to a lurching stop that almost makes him topple over his head, but better that than falling over the old man now staring up at him from the ground.

The massive pack on his back has cushioned his fall somewhat, and he now lies propped up on it, neck at an awkward angle and hands trying to grasp at anything on the ground to get a proper grip on to pull himself up, without risking falling down the small ditch by the side of the road.

They stare for a full minute.

“Mind helpin’ an old man up?” He asks, reaching toward Jack and the horse, who both stare down at him dumbly. The question knocks Jack out of his stupor, and he swings off his horse with practiced ease, soon enough pulling the old man back to his feet.

The man complains the whole time, but only about things that are of no real concern to Jack, who eyes the man for anything that could resemble the man he’s looking for.

Unfortunately for Jack – and fortunately for the man – he’s as skinny and clean-shaven as they come, and most likely older than the man he’s currently looking for.

“Sorry for runnin’ you off the road,” Jack says, handing the man back his hat. The man takes it back with a nod.

While placing it back on his head, he says, “can’t see everything clearly. Not always,”

He stops for a minute, now that they’re face to face, and seems to search Jack’s face as well.

“Not with a brute that big,” he adds, tearing his gaze away from Jack to motion toward Brutus. Jack almost laughs.

“You a traveler, sir?” Jack asks, motioning to the man’s pack.

“I suppose. I also suppose I’ve always been one.” He shrugs.

“Headin’ somewhere specific?” Jack asks. Company on the road is always nice, even when the other traveling companion doesn’t have a horse of his own.

“Won’t know until I get there.” Now, he does muster a smile, and Jack bites the bullet and smiles back.

“A sentiment I can agree with,” he says, nodding.

“And where are you headed then?” The traveler asks, hand outstretched for Brutus to curiously nip at. The horse makes a noise, but he’s new enough that Jack can’t quite tell if it’s an affectionate or a disliking sound, but he doesn’t bite, so he takes that as a good sign.

“Downriver. Got a meeting with an old friend,”

Why he’s telling a stranger all this, he doesn’t quite know. He doesn’t quite remind Jack of Uncle, even though that man was more of a talker than a listener to all the wonders that stuffed themselves into Jack’s young head.

The traveler must see something in his face, or in his eyes, because there is the ghost of a smile and something looking like longing in those pale eyes, and Jack can’t quite put his finger on why the action seems so damn familiar.

“There’s nothing so prideful as revenge, dear boy, let me tell you that. It may feel like pride, but, in reality, there’s rarely any pride in it at all.” He pats Jack’s shoulder.

They’ve known each other all of five minutes, and yet here he is, being given advice by a stranger.

“Did you know my Pa? Is that why you’re telling me this?” Jack asks because he _knows_ they look alike, _knows_ they share names, and _God only knows_ how many times Ma called him the wrong thing right before he had to bury her.

The old man’s face is a blank slate. “I can’t see how I could have known your father, seeing as I don’t even know _your_ name.”

Jack’s about to spit it out when the man holds up a hand. “When the law comes chasin’ through here after your meeting with your friend, I would rather not be held accountable for knowing your name and knowing I could prevent a potential hanging, even when they’ve got my thumb in a vice.”

“Why would they come chasin’ after you?” Jack asks, a sudden burst of fear at the notion of leaving an old man to his own devices because of Jack’s gun pointed toward _another_ old man.

“You’d be surprised about the things traveling men know.” There’s a twinkle in his eye.

They’re silent for a bit, and Jack still can’t point to _the who_ or _the what_ regarding the man in front of him.

“Well,” the man says, hoisting his pack further up his ever-so crooked back. “I won’t keep you any longer from your adventures. But, if we meet again, please do keep from running me down, but do tell me if how you got on with your ‘old friend.’”

“Suppose I’ll be tellin’ you my name, then,” Jack says, watching as the other man rounds Brutus and starts up the road from which Jack came.

“Suppose you will, or I’ll read it in the papers, just like your meeting.” He would’ve sounded mournful, hadn’t the wind gripped most of the words, and flung them sky-high and away from Jack’s ears.

“Take care, Mister,” Jack salutes by the brim of his hat, once he’s lifted himself into the saddle and gripped the reins.

He trots off down the road, but the man stands still, staring after him.

“And you, Jack,” says Hosea Matthews, his grief trapped in those pale eyes.


End file.
